


The Misadventures of Capitán Monastario

by IdaMirei



Category: Zorro (TV 1957)
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23563282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdaMirei/pseuds/IdaMirei
Summary: There is a scene in the Disney show where Capitán Monastario failed to fulfil his duties and didn't prevent Martinéz from killing the unnamed local admirer of the attractive dancing girl. This is a story of what could have happened if the commandante had more occasions to do the right thing and this time – though reluctantly – he did it.Set after the episode "Garcia's Secret Mission", but not before "Double Trouble for Zorro".The story was originally published on fanfiction.net, on the 60th anniversary of Capitán Monastario's last appearance in the Disney show – the episode "The Fall of Monastario" was aired on the 2nd of January 1958. The most memorable Zorro's adversary - so splendidly played by Britt Lomond - appeared in 13 episodes of the show and now still lives in many fanfiction stories.I am doing it for fun and I own none of the characters appearing in the Disney show.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. The Lost Child

**The lost child**

The new day began in Los Angeles. The sun was shining brightly and the autumn chill didn't pierce the air yet. However, despite the friendly aura, the _commandante_ of the pueblo, _Capitán_ Enrique Sanchéz Monastario, woke up in the foul mood. The merry sun rays sneaking through the shutters didn't disperse the frown on his face. He was testy even before he managed to get out of bed and he suspected that once he leaves his quarters, his humor would only worsen.

As usual, he was right.

To begin with, as soon as he exited the _cuartel_ , he was startled by the sight of his lancers bustling around the yards in nothing more than their underwear: long johns and shirts.

"Sergeant Garcia!" the _commandante_ asked with a growl rising in his throat. "What is the meaning of this? A deliberate mutiny? Or are you simply trying to ridicule me in the eyes of the pueblo?"

"It is washing day, _Capitán_ ," replied the sergeant with a smile, not confused with the state of his outfit – or rather lack of it. "Our uniforms are being washed."

"So?... Why aren't you wearing the spare ones?"

"But we do not have the spare ones, mi _Capitán_!" exclaimed Garcia. "Don't you remember? They got destroyed after we fell to the pitch lake when we were chasing…"

"Enough," cut him off the _commandante_. He remembered well in which circumstances they destroyed their uniforms. And he was angry enough without recalling certain impudent bandit in a black mask.

It would take a few weeks before the new uniforms he ordered would be ready. Apparently, until this time, he would have to choose between the dirty and smelly lancers or lancers in their underwear. Both cases would severely undermine his authority at the pueblo… wait. Full of bad premonitions, he turned to the sergeant and growled again:

"Garcia, do not tell me you put in front of the _cuartel_ the guards in their underwear. Because if you did, I will be the laughing stock of this pueblo until the end of the world."

"Oh no, mi _Capitán_!" called Garcia. "I didn't put the guards at all."

"Fine," sighed Monastario with relief but then froze. A _cuartel_ without guards?... And if they got attacked? The enemy would surprise them! But, then, if they got attacked, how would they fight off without uniforms?

"Ouch, I hope that your uniforms would dry quickly," he muttered. "In the afternoon I want to see all of you properly dressed, or…"

The _commandante_ didn't finish the sentence, not being able to find a credible threat. After all, he couldn't have had all the lancers transferred into the Mojave desert. So, he only let his words menacingly hang in the air and decided to go back to his office.

Yet when he turned, his eyes fell on his carriage standing near the stables. The _commandante_ grimaced painfully – the big 'Z' marring the black, shiny and initially perfectly smooth door was still visible, in spite of Garcia's miserable attempts to cover it with paint or to scratch out with a wire brush.

The inside of the carriage was in even worse condition. Since Zorro forced Corporal Sanchéz to drive the buckets with pitch in them, it was all stained and stinky. The seats and cushions from soft leather and French silk were even more difficult to restore to their previous splendid condition.

The _commandante_ sighed and sheltered himself in his office, yet he found no peace even there. On his desk, he noticed the bill for the new uniforms and the estimated cost of repair of his carriage…

He couldn't afford it.

 _Perhaps a new tax, to cover for the losses,_ he thought without enthusiasm. If he announced a new special tax for Los Angeles, the three times cursed Fox would certainly come out with new, even more nasty prank…

Disheartened, Monastario sat back on the bed, hiding his face in the hands.

 _I have had enough of this,_ he muttered. Suddenly, he missed his youthful careless days, when he had no bandits to chase, no bills to pay, no stupid soldiers and quarrelsome rancheros to deal with. In his youthful days, in such beautiful weather, he wouldn't sit and worry, only sneak out for a ride, or even better – for a long hunt… He would spend long hours enjoying the excursion, ready to face each adventure… and finally, he would return with some nice trophy, like a lynx, or wolf perhaps…

Here in California, he could easily meet a panther. Or even a bear.

 _And why wouldn't I do just that?_ he asked himself, struck by the sudden idea and smiled. A panther fur would make very nice carpet under his bed.

"Sergeant Garcia!" he shouted to the yard.

Until the big soldier managed to reach his superior's office, Monastario already had changed his uniform for some casual jacket and now was quickly packing a saddle bag.

"You want to loan me your uniform, _Commandante_?" asked Garcia, his voice trembling with emotion. "Gracias, but I am not sure whether it will fit. I am a bit wider around the waste."

The _commandante_ measured him with a cold glance.

"If you even touch my uniform, I will cut off your hands," he stated matter-of-factly. "Now, I am taking two or three days off. You will remain in charge of the _cuartel_."

"Three days off?..." repeated the sergeant surprised and he beamed: "but that's a wonderful idea, _Commandante_! Can the soldiers also take a few days off?"

"No," replied Monastario. "Don't you remember that all leaves are cancelled until you capture Zorro?"

"Yes, but you just said that…" started hopefully the sergeant, yet his voice trailed off, as he realized that the _commandante_ was not listening to him.

Monastario was so enthusiastic about his idea that he decided to set off quickly before something would force him to change his mind and stay. He didn't take many provisions, only concentrated on preparing the weapons.

"Where are you going, _Commandante_? To visit someone?" asked anxiously Garcia, seeing how Monastario gathered a rifle, pistols and hunting knife.

"No. Into the mountains. I am going to hunt."

The sergeant's face fell down. It wasn't his idea of the best use of the free time. He followed Monastario to the yard, watching how the _commandante_ fastened the bags and the blanket to the saddle of his horse.

" _Capitán_ , today the weather is lovely, but the natives say we are in for a quick cooling. It may also rain. Perhaps you should take something warmer? A coat?" he observed, but Monastario only shrugged his shoulders.

"I am not afraid of the cold."

He mounted his horse and pulled the reins, heading the animal toward the gate. Already in the saddle, he leaned over to Garcia and ordered:

"Now, Sergeant, in my absence try to keep this place in order. I do not have much hope for your performance, but I also do not expect any special troubles in the meantime."

"Of course, _Commandante_. Everything will be just as you left it when you return," nodded the big sergeant.

Monastario ran a dubious glance over the _cuartel's_ yard, watching the… significantly underdressed soldiers bustling around.

"That's what I am afraid of," he muttered.

"Any special tasks, _mi_ _Capitán?_ " asked hopefully Garcia, eager to prove his efficiency.

"If you find the way to do something about my carriage…" sighed Monastario, but waved his hand, resigned. "Never mind that. And… oh, yes. Capture Zorro, but do not hang him until I return," he added lightly.

"Of course, _mi_ _Capitán,_ " nodded again Garcia, until the meaning of the _commandante's_ words reached him and he froze, stupefied. "Capture Zorro?... But..." he stuttered, yet Monastario was already outside the gate.

Leaving the plaza, the _commandante_ passed by a group of rancheros that stood on the street chatting and laughing loudly.

" _Capit_ _á_ _n_!" called to him Alejandro de la Vega. "Is it true what people say about your soldiers… outfit?" The older don was laughing so heartily that he had to wipe the merry tears from his eyes.

"I have no idea," Monastario shrugged obliviously his shoulders. "You must ask Sergeant Garcia, he is in command of the _cuartel_ now. I am on a leave."

Having said this, with a light heart and smile on his face, the _commandante_ left the pueblo.

* * *

During the first hours of his leave, the _commandante_ fully enjoyed his excursion. The sun was warm, the air brisk, the east wind carried the smell of herbs from the meadows…

His only regret was that he met no bear or panther. The only animals that crossed his way were rabbits and a few foxes. Rabbits were too miserable prey, not worth the mess with the skinning. As for the foxes, he didn't want to spoil his humor by chasing them. There was only one Fox the _commandante_ would like to hunt for, but he was not an easy prey.

When the _commandante's_ empty stomach suggested him that a baked rabbit would do nice as dinner, as if in spite he couldn't find them anymore. He had to content himself with a dried beef he took from the _cuartel_. Yet, the modest meal didn't spoil his humor. He also hoped that in the mountains he may find the trails of the prey worth his efforts.

After the noon, however, the sun hid behind the clouds, the air turned cold and the wind became chilling.

Once he reached the mountains, the cover of the clouds thickened rapidly and the cold gusts of wind became more and more unpleasant. Somehow, Monastario expected this excursion to be more… exciting. Though he still tried to pretend he enjoyed it, after few hours of the ride he had to admit that he was tired, uncomfortable and cold.

 _It was warmer, when I was younger,_ nagged silently the _commandante_ , rubbing his shoulders to warm himself. Now he regretted that he didn't take that coat with him.

However, he was already too far from Los Angeles to return to the _cuartel_ before the night fell. Because of the clouds, the dusk was falling rapidly on the rocky paths and he had to find a suitable place to sleep.

Once he finally got off the horseback, in front of the small, but merry fire, the _commandante_ regained a bit of his adventurous spirit from the morning. After all, it was good to be free from all the concerns for a while! Deep inside, Monastario had a feeling that his career was nearing a very dangerous moment. His conflict with the _haciendados_ was growing. The infamous Fox, who started from mere defending Los Angeles from the _commandante's_ ideas, recently came to the offensive. The destroyed uniforms were nothing, just like this mocking flag on the _cuartel_ , but who could know what would happen in the future?

Monastario sighed, trying to push these unsettling thoughts aside. After all, he was on a leave now, and he was going to enjoy it, no matter the Fox and no matter the weather!

If only he took the second blanket… Now he had to choose, whether to use his only one as the sheet or as the cover, whereas both would be nice on that cold night.

* * *

The _commandante_ awoke early when the sky barely started to grey. He was chilled to the bone and very uncomfortable.

 _When I was younger, I was never so sore after sleeping outside,_ he thought pitifully.

However, he bravely chewed the second part of his beef and quickly packed the little camp, having decided not to give up and continue his hunting. After all, how could he return to the _cuartel_ empty handed?

Once he mounted the horse, the small, but chilling rain started to fall. Monastario, cursing silently, finally considered himself beaten. An adventure was one thing, a risky ride on the slippery, wet stones was something entirely different.

Besides, the rain soaked through his clothes, stealing the remains of warmth from his body. The _commandante_ once again recalled with regret the coat he didn't take from the _cuartel_ and wrapped himself in the blanket.

With a disappointed sigh, he turned his horse back to the plain land.

Heading to the pueblo, he chose the road through the wood, with remains of the fading hope that perhaps he would still shoot something – preferably the panther – that he could present as a trophy of this otherwise misfortunate adventure.

When he indeed heard some rustle of the bushes by the road, his heart jumped with joy and he quickly reached for the rifle. Luckily, it took him a while to unwrap the cloth protecting it from the dampness.

Luckily, because… when he already raised the weapon to aim, the bushes coughed and sneezed.

"Who's there?" asked sharply the _commandante_ , but heard nothing but scared silence in reply. The bushes ceased moving.

Cautiously, he moved his horse nearer and parted the branches with a rifle.

At first, he saw something white – or rather something very dirty that used to be white earlier.

Then he saw a little, even more muddy face and a pair of scared eyes.

"And who are you?..." asked Monastario surprised, but the child just kept staring at him like a frightened squirrel.

No, not at him. The _commandante_ realized that he was still keeping his rifle and the child was staring at the end of the barrel, hanging no more than a few inches from his face. He quickly lowered the weapon.

"Don't be scared, I won't hurt you," he said calmingly. "I am a soldier."

"You aren't. Soldiers wear uniforms," replied a faint, but surprisingly resolute voice.

Monastario made a sound that was something between a snort and a chuckle. Garcia should have heard it. Even the dirty kid living in the middle of the wilderness knew that the soldiers wear uniforms!

Suddenly he frowned. They indeed were in the middle of the wilderness; what was this little one doing here alone? The _commandante_ has never heard about anyone living in this wood. Probably, this child belonged to the family of some vagabonds, or Gypsies… Never mind. It was cold and Monastario wanted to get back to the _cuartel_.

"Go home and do not prowl around in the bushes. I almost shot you," he said sharply and headed his horse onto the trail again, immediately forgetting the child.

"I got lost!" called pitiful voice behind him.

The _commandante_ stopped and turned back. The child left its hiding in the bushes and stepped into the road. Now it was pitifully looking behind him, the desperation fighting with fear on the little, dirty face. Monastario looked at the kid more precisely. It was a boy, at the age somewhere between five and ten – the _commandante_ was not an expert in such matters. His face and hands were covered in scratches and simple clothes covered in mud and definitely too thin for today's weather.

"Where are you from? How did you get here?" Monastario asked, but the kid only stared at him. "Who are your parents?" he tried again.

"Mamá and papá."

"Now, that's a surprise!" gnarled Monastario, rolling his eyes. He hated talking with children. Noisy little creatures that spoke nonsense and expected the rest of the world to be interested in them… Perhaps it was also why he hated dealing with _haciendados_ as well. There were significant similarities.

"What does your father do?" he asked impatiently.

"He is a miller," replied the boy. He must have been proud of his father, as he raised his head and for a moment his faint voice became a bit stronger.

 _A miller! There is indeed a horde of brats running around the mill all the time!_ recalled Monastario. _No wonder they lost one!_

Well, after his return he would learn the miller to better guard his progeny. Now, however, he knew at least that the boy was from Los Angeles. He had to take him there. The _commandante_ sighed reluctantly – no doubt that kid had lice – but he had no choice. Once he already found this little misery, he had to deliver him into the hands of his careless parents.

"I will take you home," he said, leaning from the horseback to lift the boy onto the saddle.

When he touched the little arm he was appalled realizing how cold he was. Even if Monastario himself was chilled to the bone, the boy's skin felt like ice under his touch.

Alarmed, the _commandante_ dismounted and looked at the child from the closer distance. Only now did he notice that the child's face was literally blue from cold and that he was barely standing on his feet. When he grasped his shoulders, the kid slumped on his hands like a rag doll.

"You spent the night in this wood," realized Monastario.

The boy nodded. "It was cold. And I am hungry," he whispered. It was obvious that the desperate plea for help and conversation with the _commandante_ took the remains of the child's strength. Now he was wavering on his feet. If Monastario didn't keep him, he would fall on the muddy road.

"You should be lucky you survived at all," muttered Monastario, reaching for the blanket that covered his shoulders. He grimaced, noticing that the wool was already soaked with rain. The idea of covering the chilled boy in this wet, cold rag seemed simply cruel.

Muttering silent curses under his nose, the _commandante_ took off his jacket and wrapped it around the child. He was rewarded for this gesture by the sudden gust of wind that penetrated through the thin fabric of his shirt, soaking it with rain.

Cursing a bit louder, he raised the boy onto the horseback.

"I have nothing to eat," he said, "but on my horse we should be in Los Angeles in two hours."

The boy didn't reply. His eyes were closed and his head fell limply on his breast.

"No, wake up!" exclaimed the _commandante_ slightly panicked, as he wasn't sure whether the boy was falling asleep or fainting. Certainly, the child was exhausted, perhaps even beyond its limits. Perhaps it was too late for him. However, if the _commandante_ was to take this little one to Los Angeles, he preferred to carry an alive child than a corpse.

"Wake up," repeated Monastario, shaking the child. The boy groggily opened his eyes, but soon closed them again.

The _commandante_ desperately searched his memories for an idea of a successful way to make the boy obey him, but he found none. He had little experience with children – usually, the parents quickly pulled them out of his way. Forced to rely on his instinct and not sure whether any threat would make an impression on such exhausted boy, Monastario decided on bribery.

"If you don't fall asleep, I will give you something."

That approach was surprisingly successful, as the boy immediately opened his eyes.

"Your sword?" he asked hopefully.

Monastario snorted. This brat had a good taste.

"It is a rapier and it is worth more than ten such lads like you. However," he added gentler, "I can give you my hunting knife. It is also from Spanish steel," he said, presenting the weapon in the ornate sheath.

The boy's eyes twinkled and the little hand reached for the knife. Monastario quickly tucked the knife back behind his belt.

"Only if you do not fall asleep till Los Angeles," he said and climbed onto the saddle.

He urged his horse forward, forcing the animal to ride as quickly as possible, trying to keep together the reins, the child and blanket protecting them from the cold rain.

 _It is all the fault of Zorro,_ he thought angrily. After all, if the bandit hadn't tricked the lancers into the tar pits, their uniforms wouldn't have been destroyed and the _commandante_ wouldn't have gotten so angry yesterday morning. The misfortunate idea of hunting in the mountains wouldn't have fallen to his mind and he would never have come across this dirty little thing. He wouldn't be so cold and uncomfortable now, only sitting in his warm office over some good dinner, with a glass of wine in his hand.

 _But… if I hadn't ridden through this wood today, that kid would probably die,_ he realized with sudden discomfort. _Not that it would matter much, but… Ah, anyway!..._

He concentrated on the ride and limited his considerations to cursing and envisioning what he would do to the child's neglectful parents after his return.

* * *

The _commandante_ rode hard, forcing his horse to the extreme effort. Once he already took up the rescue mission, he wanted to be successful. A few times he stopped to check on the boy. The child sat curled and slumped onto the saddle with half-closed eyes, but each time Monastario unwrapped him from the covers, he raised his head saying quickly, even if in very faint voice:

"I am not sleeping!"

"Very well," replied the _commandante_. He didn't like children, but this one seemed to be quite tolerable.

Monastario approached Los Angeles from the side of the river, where the mill was situated. However, when he neared to the town, for a moment he forgot about the boy, as he saw an unusual gathering at the outskirts – lancers, rancheros with their men, even a lot of natives were hovering around, shouting something… smaller groups of men were setting off, another was returning…

 _The city was attacked in my absence!_ he realized in horror. _We lost the cuartel and the soldiers escaped!..._

Feeling his heart raising to his throat he spurred his horse, forcing the very tired animal to the one more effort.

"Garcia!" he yelled, having spotted the big form of his sergeant. "What happened?"

The big lancer looked indeed as if after the lost battle. Even if he was wearing the uniform again, it was wet and muddy and Garcia's face was greyish from fatigue. He passed a fleeting glance over the _commandante_ , but was too distracted to pay closer attention. Besides, the _capitán_ sheltered both himself and his cargo from wind and rain with a blanket, so that the child looked rather like a bundle of rags., That's why the sergeant didn't notice the boy only observed absently:

" _Commandante_ , you returned? Did you shoot something? The weather was not good for hunting." Then he pointed at the men gathered around and explained: "We are searching for Carlito. He got lost yesterday. There is no trail of him and it is getting colder…" the sergeant shook his head and his usually serene face clouded with regret, "even if he survived the first night, he won't make it through the second. If we do not find him till nightfall…" Garcia choked back the remains of the sentence and finished with a sigh: "That's why everyone helps."

"All this for one missing brat?" Monastario looked around in disbelief. He could understand such commotion if it was a governor's son missing, but to make so much turmoil around some miller's boy!... Heavens, even most of the _haciendados_ were present! And these men, that yesterday laughed him off so haughtily, now were beleaguered, tired and soaked with rain, shivering in the cold wind despite their long coats… But perhaps they were searching for some other boy?

"I found some child in the wood," he said, unwrapping the blanket and raising the boy, like a kitten, to present him to the sergeant. "Is it this one you are looking for?"

"Carlito!" gasped Garcia. His tired face beamed with a smile of relief. "He is alive!"

People who heard him ceased moving, turning to the _commandante_. For a moment, everything around froze in silence.

"So, if that's the one, would someone take it from me, or not?" asked Monastario with irritation. "I thought you wanted to find him."

"Carlito!" shouted some man running toward them. The _commandante_ knew what the miller looked like and frowned, surprised what one night of worry could do to a man. Even if on his way to Los Angeles he decided to immediately arrest the miller for lack of parental supervision, now he decided to postpone it for a while. He only pushed the boy, still wrapped in his jacket, into the miller's hands with angry reproach:

"You should guard him better."

"Gracias, _Commandante_ ," stuttered the miller clutching the child to his breast. By his side appeared some woman, with the face red and swollen from tears. Still sobbing, she looked as if she wanted to kiss Monastario's hand.

"Better take your brat home and give him something to eat," snorted the _commandante_. However, his words were lost in the wave of cheers and merry shouts around them.

Monastario found no satisfaction in the joyous commotion around him. He was cold, tired and hungry and had no intention of making the whole pueblo happy. On the contrary, he would be much better after causing someone to feel as miserable as he was. He looked toward the miller, reconsidering whether he shouldn't arrest him after all when he noticed that the boy wriggled to free from his father's grasp and called something to Monastario.

Relieved that the boy wasn't totally exhausted and curious what he wanted, the _commandante_ leaned toward him to hear it. Did he want to thank him as well?

"I didn't fall asleep," announced triumphantly the boy. "Not even for a second. Now give me my knife."

"Shhh, Carlito… be quiet," whispered the scared miller, who must have felt that his freedom hung by the very thin thread of Monastario's humor.

However, to the surprise of everyone around and his own, Monastario burst out with laughter. No, he didn't like children, but this one had spirit! He reached for his knife and handed it into little hands outstretched in his direction.

"Here, you earned it," he said to the boy.

As people around him silenced again, looking at him suspiciously, Monastario shrugged his shoulders and withdrew his horse out the crowd. The whole Los Angeles could stay here and prattle if they wanted; he intended to get home finally, change into something dry and…

"…the boy is fine. Frozen, but alive."

"Saints be praised!"

Monastario flinched, having heard this small exchange near him. He didn't have to turn to the owners of the familiar voices to recognize them – Alejandro de la Vega and his son. Well, well, even Diego de la Vega left his books and took part in the search! Still, the _commandante_ had no wish to speak with either of them. Since that turmoil around Alejandro's attack at the _cuartel_ , and all that happened after that, his conversations with the de la Vegas were limited to the short exchange of better or worse masked mockeries, if not insults. Especially this young one had a terribly sharp tongue. Monastario grimaced recalling the sneering expression of Diego de la Vega when he witnessed an inglorious return of the _commandante_ and his lancers after the bath in the tar pits. And today he also looked miserable; in a wet shirt and soaked blanket wrapped around his shoulders, as if he was one of these vagabond natives…

Monastario was so tired and hungry that – even if he admitted it very reluctantly – he had no will to face the de la Vegas at the moment. He tried to pass by them discreetly, hoping that they wouldn't notice him.

" _Commandante_!"

Monastario sighed heavily and – trying to keep fierce expression on his face – turned back. He felt slightly better seeing that even Diego de la Vega – usually bearing with spotless elegance – now was as tired and dirty as everyone around. Perhaps even worse than the others, as unlike the men around them, who were wrapped in the dark coats, he was only in a tan suit. Diego de la Vega never wore coats or capes, no matter the weather.

"Yes?"

"The Providence must have guarded this boy and let you find him. We have been searching for him since yesterday. I feared already that it is too late to find him alive."

The kind words didn't disperse Monastario's frown. He didn't wish to be treated so… patronizingly! Besides, it was terribly irritating to see this joy on the faces all around him. Both de la Vegas, father and son, looked so wrenched that they definitely had a sleepless night behind them, but now they literally beamed with joy and relief.

"The Providence should rather put some reason into the heads of this boy's parents," he snorted. "I took him here, once I found him, but most probably I spoiled my hunt for nothing. The brat chilled to the bone. Surely he will fall for pneumonia and die anyway."

He prepared for indignant protests of both de la Vegas, but to his surprise, they only exchanged worried glances.

"He is right," muttered Alejandro.

"I will better fetch the doctor right now," sighed Diego de la Vega. Then he turned to Monastario and offered: "I have a free place in my carriage, I can drive you to the pueblo. You too look tired."

Monastario snorted. He would sooner crawl to the pueblo than ride into this funny little gig, like a señorita!

"No, gracias," he replied scornfully. "I am fine." It would sound mightier if his teeth didn't chatter.

Diego de la Vega looked at him with a merry grin. "If I said that you did a good thing saving this boy, _Commandante_ , you would probably feel offended, so… eh… I will say nothing."

"And keep it that way as long as possible, Señor, then there indeed would be something to thank the Providence for," snarled angrily Monastario, but Diego de la Vega, instead of getting offended, only burst out in a loud, contagious laughter.


	2. A lady in distress

After the failed hunting expedition the _commandante_ went down with the nastiest cold that put him to bed for a few days. He could only be grateful that in the meantime nothing happened that would require his attention. Even Zorro left him in peace – which was a lucky fluke, as Monastario was so weak that if the Fox fancied to throttle through the _cuartel's_ yard, he wouldn't be able to order a pursuit.

When he finally felt better and walked out of his quarters, he was struck by the unexpected change he spotted in the yard.

"Sergeant Garcia…" he wanted to yell but only rasped and coughed. "Where is my carriage?"

The place where his carriage, so nastily destroyed by the masked outlaw, used to stay, was empty.

"Ah, _Commandante_! You feel better today?" called merrily the sergeant. "I found the way to do something about your carriage, just as you asked me."

"And where is it, _baboso_?" growled Monastario – or at least he tried to growl as menacingly as the hoarseness in his voice allowed. "Just do not tell me you burnt it or…"

"Oh, no, no. I sold it."

"You sold it? But…"

"For a very good price," added hastily the sergeant.

"I doubt it," muttered Monastario, but Garcia reached to his pocket and retrieved from it a folded piece of paper. "It is a contract," he said, handing the document to the _commandante_.

The _commandante_ quickly looked through its content and raised his eyebrows.

"And why actually," he said with much gentler tone, "did Don Miguel Salazár buy the damaged carriage for the price high enough to order the new one in Monterey? Even if he doesn't mind driving in a vehicle with a 'Z' scratched on its door, he still would have to change the upholstery. The old one stinks with pitch."

"That's because, _mi_ _Capit_ _á_ _n_ , changing the upholstery will take no more than a week or two, whereas for a new carriage from Monterey he would have to wait months. And Don Miguel needs the elegant carriage very urgently," explained the sergeant.

"He is? What for?" asked Monastario, slightly curious. "Some wedding in his family?"

"Oh, no," Garcia shook his head. "He needs the carriage for his niece from Europe. The lady widowed recently and is paying him a visit. Don Miguel said that she is used to elegance and comfort."

"Then what is she doing in this pueblo?..." Monastario shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind. You did a good job this time, Sergeant." The _commandante_ smiled thinking that now he would be able to order a new carriage. He could wait a few months. After all, he wasn't going anywhere.

"One more thing, Sergeant." Monastario, suddenly abashed, cleared his throat, before asking: "This miller's boy that got lost in the wood… did he recover after his adventure?"

Garcia beamed. "Yes! Can you imagine, _Commandante_ , that he didn't even have a cold? Each grown-up would pay for such escapade with pneumonia and this one – on the second day he was as fine as usual and ready for new troubles!"

"Right, these brats are resilient like cockroaches," muttered Monastario. "Now, I will see the correspondence," he said, willing to retreat to his office. He was still feeling a bit weak. After all, unlike the adventurous miller's boy, he did have a cold.

The _commandante_ took the letters from his desk and returned to his quarters, laying himself on the bed with a sigh of relief. His eyes fell on the panther fur serving as the carpet and he smiled with liking. Of course, he would prefer to hunt this animal alone – and this fur was a gift from the _cabildo_ , as a reminder after the lucky rescue of the miller's son. At first the _commandante_ wanted to send it back, suspecting whose idea it was – after all he complained about the failed hunting trip only to Diego de la Vega – but the fur was very pretty and fitting in his quarters, so, all in all, he kept it.

Now Monastario flipped one letter after another, at first not finding anything of special interest. A few warrants sent after conmen and bandits – one of them was accompanied by the personal note of _Capit_ _á_ _n_ Zambrano who called Monastario's special attention to certain Carlos Martinéz. The rogue had caused a load of troubles and escaped, avoiding arrest.

A few letters from other presidios – the only information worth noticing concerned the viceroy, whose ship was to reach the port in Monterey any day. If only the viceroy cared to visit also Los Angeles! Monastario smiled dreamily thinking of such chance to boost his career and all the opportunities that it would open...

Some vague warnings from the governor's office concerning the possibility of a new plot against the Spanish Crown – Monastario didn't even read this one to the end, he was never giving ear to the conspiracy theories.

A special recommendation from the bishop of Durango to all presidios, concerning some travelling monk that happened to be a famous sermonizer – as if it was Monastario's task to pamper some senile cripples!

And finally something really interesting: the information concerning an especially nasty group of bandits that recently found their hiding in the district of Los Angeles. This letter Monastario read very carefully. The criminal career of this band involved assaulting the travellers on the King's Road, raiding the ranchos, extortions and kidnappings… Despite the joint efforts of northern presidios they remained unseizable for a very long time. Only recently one member of the band got caught and betrayed the information about their present hiding – a small, deserted rancho in the vicinity of the port of San Pedro.

 _Commandante_ Monastario gladly welcomed an occasion to prove his military talent – and also to make up for the stain on his reputation caused by the fact that the most famous bandit in his district so far still managed to avoid the scaffold. Of course, one day Monastario would also catch the elusive Fox. However, in the meantime, he could take care of more common criminals.

"Sergeant Garcia!" he called again. "Do you know the Rancho San Ysidro?"

"More or less…" replied the sergeant. "The old hacienda is deserted."

"Apparently not anymore. It turns out that some vermin nestled there," replied Monastario with a twinkle in his eyes. "We will take care of it."

"We?..." surprised the sergeant. "If the vermin is concerned, shouldn't we rather sent there the servants, laundresses and perhaps carpenters… What exactly is it? Cockroaches? Bugs?"

"Bandits, _baboso_!" gnarled Monastario. "Prepare the men. We will ride to capture the band of robbers. And we set off immediately."

The sergeant's face went long. He must have hoped for longer and calmer period of Monastario's recovery. "Immediately? But, _Commandante_ , are you certain that you are well enough to…"

"I am perfectly healthy," cut him off Monastario. "Gather the soldiers."

* * *

Monastario ordered the lancers to ride off the trail long before they even neared to San Pedro. Using the local vaqueros as guides, they cautiously neared to the Rancho San Ysidro following the sideways and paths that served animals rather than people.

Once they reached the borders of the rancho, the _commandante_ sent scouts to check the hacienda. They returned with the most exciting news – there was indeed the dozen of the most suspicious men residing at the ruins of the deserted house. Their equipment confirmed that they lived by the art of fight and violence.

Monastario asked his men to dismount and fasten their weapons so that no sound of clinging steel would give the bandits premature warning, even the buckles of their belts had to be secured. Slowly and with utmost caution, they half walked, half crawled toward the hacienda.

The one and only guard the overconfident bandits left outside the ruins was taken care of quickly and soundlessly. The whole band was enjoying the siesta and calmly drowsing in the ruined hacienda. The _commandante_ showed the soldiers to surround them – and so they did, quietly and deftly, closing the ring around the bandits' camp, one by one taking suitable positions…

And then Monastario sneezed.

The sound bang in the air like a musket shot. The bandits literally jumped to attention, grabbing their weapons.

"Attack!" shouted the _commandante_ , but the advantage of surprise was lost. In seconds, a hell of a fight broke out in the ruins of the old hacienda.

The bandits immediately decided to flee and they fought rather to cover their retreat than to defend their position. Monastario quickly understood that their intention was to escape with minimal losses, probably into another hiding.

"Don't let them go!" he yelled to his soldiers, knowing well that if all the robbers flee, it may take weeks to track them again. Alás, the bandits managed to get through to their horses, whereas the soldiers' mounts were left in a certain distance from the ruins. It took a few precious minutes before they were able to start the pursuit. The bandits managed even to free their last companion, previously captured by the soldiers.

Monastario with despair realized that the bandits were already in the significant distance. He spurred his horse, forcing the animal to the swiftest gallop. In a few seconds, he left his lancers far behind. Of course, he didn't intend to fight a dozen bandits single-handed. However, he hoped to catch and incapacitate at least one of them, so that he would have a captive to interrogate…

He followed the fleeing bandits to the road, then out of it, into some narrow path. Far behind, he heard his lancers, yet his all attention was by the men he chased, concentrated to keep them in eyesight. It was getting more and more difficult, as the brushwood thickened around them.

Only when the bushes turned into the thick wood, Monastario started to wonder, whether he didn't get into the lead a bit too much. He still could see the few bandits ahead of him, but he didn't hear his soldiers behind anymore. Slightly troubled, he cast a quick glance behind his shoulders, just to make sure whether really no one was following him in the range of seeing, but the path behind him was empty.

He looked forward again, but just to see a thick tree branch hanging horizontally over the path, no more than a few yards before him. His horse was still running at full gallop and the branch neared immediately and unavoidably. Monastario didn't even manage to gasp until his temple collided with the wood and he was knocked unconscious off the horseback.

* * *

"Why the hell did you take him? We should have left him where he fell."

"He might be of use."

The voices drifted into Monastario's consciousness from a far distance. At first, when he opened his eyes, he saw nothing but darkness. Only after a few seconds he noticed some feeble streaks of light and realized that he was lying in some dark room, under the wall made of wooden planks. The light was getting through the cracks between them.

"What use can we make of him? He is a lancer. They would search for him. He would only draw more troubles onto us," sounded again the voice on the other side of the wall.

"We can use him as a hostage to secure our escape."

Monastario cautiously moved his head, struggling against the wave of pain and nausea. _The branch…_ he recalled and almost moaned with shame. To be knocked from the horse so stupidly! He tried to move into a sitting position and realized that his hands were tied in front of him. _The bandits found me and took to their hiding,_ he understood and immediately froze motionless. Struggling with the need to cough, he tried to overhear more from the conversations on the other side of the wall.

"That's too risky. Even with a hostage, we won't lose the pursuit, once the soldiers catch our trail. We should have escaped by now, just like the others."

"I won't resign from the ransom of such height. We can still get it and then escape."

"And if the soldiers find this place? I told you they chased us through this wood. I came to tell you that we were discovered and take you to the rest, not to stay here with you."

Monastario frowned. Apparently, these were only two people talking. And what about the others? The rest escaped and these two left? For ransom? Did they want to ransom him?

"It is not every day when you have an occasion to catch such golden fish."

The _commandante's_ confusion deepened. He had been called many names, but certainly not a golden fish.

"If we wait for ransom, the soldiers would find us and kill. What's the use of money, if we are dead? Don't be stupid, Moncho. You know that the others escaped. We should follow them. The longer we stay here, the higher the risk is."

A long moment of silence followed. In the meantime, Monastario cautiously moved his legs, noting with relief, that they were not bound. Very slowly he tried to move into kneeling position.

"I do not want to hang," replied finally Moncho. "You are right, we should escape right now."

"Very well. Let's cut their throats and go. No need to leave witnesses behind."

 _Their?_ The _commandante_ quickly looked around. His eyes got used to the darkness of the room enough to see that there was no one else in his prison.

"I do not like killing women," objected Moncho.

"So I will get rid of the girl and you kill the soldier."

Moncho voiced no further protests and the conversation was ended. Behind the wall someone shifted – the bandits were apparently standing up.

 _Cut their throats? Kill the soldier?_ Monastario realized that he had no more than a few seconds to do something – despite his bound hands and concussion – or he would die. Damn, where were his soldiers? Where in the hell was Zorro?

Tossing silent curses, acting solely on instinct, the _commandante_ stood up, flattened himself to the wall and when Moncho entered the room, using all strengths he could muster with his bound hands, hit the head of the bandit.

Moncho wavered and fell on his knees, still conscious, but stunned, letting the knife he kept fall from his hands onto the ground. Monastario quickly grabbed it, trying to cut the rope on his wrists. Unfortunately, it didn't give up, till the second bandit, hearing the noise burst into the room. The _commandante_ feinted the blow with the knife and simultaneously kicked the bandit, knocking him off his feet.

He ran through the door and realized that they were in some shed or workshop built from wooden planks and with threshing floor, whereas he was earlier locked in a kind of storage. Some rugs and sacks wallowed around, rusty tools and ropes hung on the walls – nothing he could make use of.

The second bandit launched at him with a knife in his hand. Monastario managed to dodge and knock the man again onto the ground. His opponent was clumsy and surprised by unexpected resistance, yet the _commandante_ was alone against two armed men and he still didn't manage to free his hands. Out of other ideas, he neared to the window and called:

"Lancers! Over here! Quickly!"

His desperate shout had an unexpected effect – though no soldier appeared, the bandit panicked.

"Soldiers are near!" he yelled. "To horses! Hurry!"

He rushed to the door, followed by his companion.

Monastario watched in disbelief as two bandits ran out and jumped on their horses. For a moment he just stood, panting heavily, not understanding how seemingly hopeless predicament could have been solved so unexpectedly. Only when the tramp of the bandits' horses faded away, he awoke from the stupor.

"The hell I will let you escape!" he yelled and rushed to the door.

The shed stood in the middle of the wood, with one small path leading to it – the escaping bandits must have followed it. The spare horses stood tethered in front of the building, Monastario's horse among them – the bandits must have found not only the _commandante_ , but also his mount. Monastario wanted to run to him, but realized that his hands were still tied.

 _I am not thinking clearly. That's because of this hit in the temple,_ he thought, returning to the shed to search for the knife. His head was still aching and from time to time he felt a dizzy spell, causing the world around him sway a bit. Still, he wasn't going to resign from the chase. From what he overheard he could suspect that his lancers probably lost the trail of the bandits. Catching one of these two who found him might be the only chance for finding their new hiding.

Damn, Monastario had to catch them. Otherwise… that would be a terribly public failure. The other presidios would certainly learn about it… the governor too…

The _commandante_ clenched his teeth and quickly cut off the rope binding his hand.

 _I will catch one of them and bring him to the cuartel and he would lead me to the others,_ he thought with determination.

Just when he was to leave the shed, he heard some strange noise, something between the sob and moan. He looked around – the room was empty, but… his eyes fell on the wooden flap in the floor.

Quite reluctantly – with each second his bandits were further – he neared to the flap and kicked it aside, uncovering the dark hole without stairs leading down. The unpleasant smell of dampness and waste hit his face.

"Is anybody there?" he called into the hole.

After a long moment of silence, when he was already intending to leave, he heard a quiet noise, as if someone let the breath out.

"Yes," gasped a sobbing voice. A feminine voice.

 _Right, these rogues were speaking something about a woman!_ understood Monastario. She must have been held captive in this hole… but no matter. He was in a hurry.

"Your captors escaped, you are free to go," he called to the hole again and turned to leave. A desperate shout stopped him already at the threshold.

"I cannot!"

There were indeed no stairs or ladder leading down the hole. The _commandante_ looked hesitantly at the direction of the black opening.

"I'll come for you later and get you out there," he called.

The darkness in the hole sobbed in reply.

Monastario turned toward the door, stopped for a moment and turned back again. Here, his bandits were escaping, increasing the distance between them with each second… and together with them, his chances for redeeming his reputation were diminishing…

But to leave this sobbing creature in this black stinking hole?...

Yet, if he let these bandits escape… If the governor started to nag at his incompetence… Especially now, with the viceroy inspecting California… Such small coincidences were sometimes… decisive.

After all, this girl could wait a bit longer. It was not that her life was in danger, like the miller's boy, in whose case there indeed was a reason to hurry.

But then something, somewhere in the deep forgotten corner of Monastario's mind – or heart perhaps – moved, as he recalled the chilled boy he found and managed to bring alive back to town. And now… now again there was no one else around, but him… Cursing silently under his nose, he reached for the rope and fastened it to the wall, throwing its second end to the hole.

"Grab the line and I will pull you up!" he called.

"I cannot… I do not know how. Please, help me!" called the girl.

Monastario rolled his eyes, wondering whether he really should waste time on saving such lame duck. _Anyway, these bandits are already far away. I will have to track them. A few minutes won't make a difference_ , he thought resigned and lowered himself into the hole.

It was no more than a big pit dug in the ground that must have served as the cellar. It wasn't even too deep, the grown-up man with a bit of effort could probably get out of it himself. However, the present occupant of this provisional prison only curled on the ground and choked with tears.

"Will you help me?" she asked in trembling voice.

"And how do you think, why did I get down here?" gnarled Monastario. Both the cave and its inhabitant stank terribly, he felt it even despite his cold. Fighting with disgust, he reached his hand: "Get up."

The woman lingered and the _commandante_ added impatiently: "Listen, girl, I have bandits to chase, so make up your mind. Do you prefer to stay here?"

"No," sobbed the ragged shape and the girl stood up.

Holding his breath – and thankful that he had his gloves on – Monastario lifted her up, pushing out on the floor of the shed. Then with the help of the rope, he got himself out of the hole.

Once outside, he eyed the girl more precisely. Well, there was not much to look at. Her dress was ragged and so dirty it was hard to guess its original color. The same could be said about her hands and neck. The hair hung in miserable strands, covering the face. Besides, she kept sniffing her nose.

 _Was she that golden fish the bandits talked about?_ thought Monastario surprised. _A mud toad rather!_

The girl looked at him also, as far as the unkempt hair falling over her eyes allowed her.

"You are a soldier? Take me home," she said.

"I am a _capitán_ ," stressed Monastario irritated. "The _commandante_ of Los Angeles. Not a coachman."

"C _apitán_ , I was kept in this hole for almost a week," replied the girl. With shaking hands, she tried to arrange the ragged dress around her shoulders and wipe out the tears from her cheeks. "I am tired, sore and hungry. My relatives must be dying from anxiety about me. Take me home with no delay."

Her hands left the streaks of dirt on her face and she still sat on the ground, too weak to stand up, but some new tone sounded in her voice. A tone that brought vague reminiscences of a lady sending the servant to bring refreshments or saddle her horse.

The _commandante_ , confused by this new note, looked at her again. Yes, that dress was dirty and ragged, but it must have been an expensive piece of garment. And she watched him not abashed, only expectantly. Somehow, Monastario's rank made no impression on her, just as if she was used to men like him obeying her wishes.

Perhaps she indeed was a golden fish, a daughter of some _haciendado_ , kidnapped for ransom. After all, the bandits wouldn't have been keeping a simple peasant girl as a prisoner.

Still, it didn't matter. A _haciendado's_ daughter, even if she was clean and dressed up, wouldn't save him from troubles, when the viceroy would be asking about his proficiency.

"Señorita, I am sorry for your predicament," he said more politely. "I trust these beasts made you no harm. However, I cannot assist you home. I must track your kidnappers so that they would be brought to justice."

"It is señora," corrected him the girl faintly, but the lordly tone in her voice clang even more clear than before.

Monastario only shrugged his shoulders and silently promised to arrest her husband on the spot, whoever he would be, for letting his wife to be kidnapped and causing the _commandante_ so much trouble. Now, however, he had to concentrate on his chase. He walked to the door and looked outside the shed, smiling as his eyes fell on the horses tethered in front of it.

"The bandits left their spare horses. You can ride home on one of them, Señora."

The girl looked at him with such indignation that it was visible even from behind the dirty curtain of her hair.

"But… I cannot!"

 _I heard it a few times today,_ thought Monastario irritated.

"Señora, I must follow the bandits. With each second their trail would be less visible," he replied through clenched teeth.

"But I… I won't ride the bandit's horse!"

The girl corrected the ragged dress falling off her shoulder again and finally made an effort to gather herself from the floor and stand up. Staggering, she slowly walked to the door, but stopped at the threshold, squinting her eyes from the sunlight. She was breathing the fresh air with obvious delight.

"Señora…" Monastario started angrily, but relented, seeing her poor condition. "I will borrow you my horse," he offered with a sigh. "He is gentle and well-trained."

"I cannot ride in the man's saddle," replied the girl helplessly.

Monastario raised his eyebrows. Where was she from? Each woman in California, even the daughter of the most pretentious _haciendados_ , aspiring to be the most feeble flower, knew how to ride in the man's saddle!

"Señora, I cannot conjure up a woman's saddle or a carriage," he replied sharply. "Besides, I have bandits to chase. I have lost enough time. Either you mount this horse right now, or you may stay here."

The girl replied nothing, only swept the hair from her face and looked at him pleadingly. Monastario stated with surprise that – dirty and unkempt how she was – she had amazing eyes.

 _Like the lakes in a moonlight,_ passed through his mind. He immediately rebuked himself for thinking something so stupid. _A concussion. I must have a concussion._

He strode toward his horse, intending to mount him and go after the bandits. Somehow, he moved much slower than usual. It must have been the concussion. Or the cold.

"Once I reach my detachment, I will send the lancers for you," he said unsurely.

The girl still said nothing only swayed and leant on the wall of the shed, with uncertain gesture correcting her dress over and over again.

"This shouldn't take long," mumbled Monastario. "Goodbye."

He reached for the reins and put his foot in the stirrup.

After a second, he moved his foot back and with a heavy sigh for a moment rested his temple on the saddle, giving up.

"Fine, Señora. I will take you to your home," he said gloomily.

"Would you please take some side road?" asked the girl faintly. "I do not want anyone to see me in such condition."

 _Women!..._ Monastario only shook his head with a reluctant grimace. However, pitying her attempts to arrange that rag of a dress, he reached for his coat fastened to the saddle – after his hunting expedition he was determined to carry it with always at hand – and wrapped it around the girl.

"Where do you live?" he asked lifting her onto the horseback and climbing on the saddle behind her.

"Take me to the rancho of Don Miguel Salazár. And gracias, _Commandante_ ," replied the girl with obvious relief, nestling herself on the horseback in front of him. She closed her eyes and with tired sigh rested her head on Monastario's shoulder.

The _commandante_ grimaced and turned his head aside, trying to keep his nose leeward to his passenger.

* * *

"Elvira… Dios, Elvira… You are alive…" was all that Don Miguel Salazár was able to stutter when Monastario with the girl arrived at his hacienda.

"Yes, I…" started the girl and suddenly stopped, seeing her reflection in the window glass. Then she only moaned and fainted, falling on the tiles of the patio.

Monastario made no move to catch her, deciding he did enough for this girl. He walked calmly to the well and washed his hands and face, patiently watching the commotion on the patio. About a dozen servants gathered around the señora, cheering at her return and pitying at her condition. Once they carried her inside the house and only Don Miguel left at the patio, the _commandante_ neared to him with a dark expression.

"Now, Señor," he drawled slowly. "About your wife… Don't you think you should have guarded her better? Because of your negligence, I had to interrupt an important mission."

Don Miguel for a moment started at him without comprehension.

"But, _Commandante_ ," he replied finally, "Elvira is not my wife."

"So your daughter, or daughter-in-law," Monastario shrugged his shoulders. "No matter. The point is that I just lost the trail of…"

"No, _Commandante_. Elvira is my niece."

"That's not the point!" Monastario raised his voice. "I was just telling you that… What? The one you bought my carriage for?"

Don Miguel nodded. "She just arrived from Europe. She didn't even reach the hacienda. These bastards kidnapped her as soon as she left the harbor."

"So why didn't you send the men to escort her!" yelled Monastario, now very angry. "Don't you know how dangerous the roads are?"

"I sent the men for her. They were all killed," stated sadly Don Miguel.

The _commandante_ frowned, for a moment thrown out of balance. So people were killed on the road and he knew nothing about it?

"Why didn't you report it in the _cuartel_?" he asked gentler. "We would have searched for her."

"I feared that they would kill her," replied Don Miguel quietly. Suddenly he sat down as if his legs gave up. "They wrote that they would kill her," he muttered dimly, hiding his face in the hands.

Monastario stared at the older man, evidently reliving the nightmare of the last days.

"She is fine now," he grunted after a while, with certain regret giving up the idea of arresting Don Miguel. He didn't want to have him crying in the cell.

"Elvira is my sister's only child," whispered Don Miguel with the tears in his eyes. "And she is so alike her!..."

"Fine, fine," Monastario cut him off. "You can take care of her now. And I…" he sighed, "I still need to take care of these bandits. While escorting Doña Elvira, I lost their trail. I must find it again, otherwise, the governor…" he interrupted, biting his tongue. After all, he didn't want to show his weakness in front of one of these haughty _haciendados_ and admit that he is afraid of the governor.

"Gracias, _Commandante_ ," replied Don Miguel earnestly. "Gracias for helping her… Poor Elvira, she has gone through a lot… She lost her husband and…" seeing that Monastario shifted impatiently, the older don stopped his confidences and added matter-of-factly: "As for the governor, do not worry about him, _Commandante_. If he even utters one word against you for helping my Elvira, I will deal with him."

The expression on Don Miguel's face was indeed very haughty, when he said it and Monastario – to his own surprise – felt slightly better. After struggling so long against the whole community, it was good to have, for a change, some ally.

* * *

Much later, when the _commandante_ in search for some entertainment decided to visit the tavern, he noticed with discontent that his incompetent soldiers were already there, of course accompanied by Diego de la Vega. The young man listened gladly to the sergeant's wild tale of his chase after the bandits though the woods.

"… and so we followed them relentlessly, not caring for fatigue and hunger! As swift as wind have we gone through this wood!..."

The _commandante_ only rolled his eyes. Whatever Garcia was chasing, it definitely escaped him, as his lancers returned to the _cuartel_ empty handed, not having found the tiniest trail neither of the band that escaped from the Rancho San Ysidro, nor for these two that wanted to wait for ransom for Doña Elvira.

"Don't be so gloomy, _Commandante_!" called Diego de la Vega, sitting by Monastario's table. "Perhaps you will still get this band."

Monastario blinked surprised and frowned. There was no malice in de la Vega's voice, but one could never know what this dandy was driving at.

"So you say, Señor? Your opinion is indeed comforting," he replied angrily. "And how would I get them, if they all escaped, the devil knows where? Perhaps you would track them for me, huh?"

De la Vega ignored the taunt, only took a sip from his mug and added consolingly:

"At least you saved the lady. That's the deed worth some devotion. Especially that she is a widow. The Holy Bible says that helping the widow is…"

"She is very young to be a widow," observed absently Monastario, ignoring the prattle.

"Oh, her husband wasn't that young. Besides, to sweeten the pain after his passing, he left her quite a fortune, both here and in Spain," stated Diego de la Vega. His voice was light, but he watched Monastario cautiously from behind his eyelashes.

"Good for her," Monastario shrugged his shoulders, recalling the tousled, smelly creature he delivered to the Salazár hacienda, "because with her appearance, or rather lack of it, she will need her fortune to settle herself in life again."

Instead of sending him indignant reproach, Diego de la Vega only chuckled:

"As usual, _Commandante_ , you have problems with seeing through the outer shell," he said and stood up, bowing his goodbye.


	3. The old monk (and his dog)

It took _Capitán_ Monastario another week to heal the remains of his cold, fully recover from the concussion and order a new, warm coat. In the meantime, he stayed mostly at the _cuartel_ , as he was getting tired of strange incidents that met him each time he made a lonely trip. To be more precise, he had no wish to rescue anyone else, lose another piece of his outfit or be subject to the new discomforts.

However, he didn't neglect the efforts to track and catch the band that managed to escape him. He announced the reward for their capture and wrote the warning to the _haciendas_. He also kept sending patrols to search the neighborhood day and night, even if he didn't believe that his lancers would be able to find the trail of the wily bandits.

No one was more surprised than the _commandante_ himself when one day he heard that his patrol was returning accompanied by the loud cheers of the people while riding down the streets of Los Angeles. He burst out of his office, just to see Sergeant Garcia and his detachment arriving at the _cuartel_. They led prisoners – two slightly battered men with gloomy faces and bound hands.

"Sergeant Garcia? Who are these men?" he asked incredulously, though he already recognized them as the members of the band that escaped from the Rancho San Ysidro.

" _Commandante_ ," the sergeant straightened to attention so proudly, that the stitches of his uniform creaked dangerously. "I report that we managed to capture two of the bandits we are after. They already confessed that their companions are now hiding in the natives' caves in the mountains."

Monastario stared at the prisoners wide-eyed, not entirely sure they were real. "Bravo, Sergeant!... I would never dare to hope that you would catch them!"

Garcia beamed at the praise, but then furrowed his eyebrows: "But you sent me many times on patrol with the orders to trail these scoundrels. Why did you do it, if you didn't expect us to catch them?..."

"I… I was speaking figuratively," Monastario stuttered slightly and finished with a dismissive gesture. "Anyway, where did you find them?"

"Around the tar pits in La Brea Rancho," the sergeant replied running his eyes aside, but Monastario was too excited to notice it.

"La Brea!" he exclaimed. "Exactly where I sent you today! I had a good hunch."

This made the unexpected luck of the sergeant more credible. He simply received good orders. Even this mumbling elephant could do a right job under proper command! Monastario nodded proudly and, deciding to strike while the iron was hot, quickly gave orders:

"Lock these two in the cell and gather all the men, except the guards. The lancers from patrol need to change horses, as we set off with no delay. We will capture the whole band before nightfall."

In no more than a few minutes, a numerous detachment of lancers, with the _commandante_ in the lead, was leaving the _cuartel_ , heading toward the mountains.

* * *

Once they already were outside the pueblo, the _commandante_ , struck by the sudden idea, leaned over to the sergeant, asking:

"I trust that these two were alone, when you caught them, Sergeant? Because if there was someone else from this band and he will warn the others…"

"Oh no, _Commandante_ ," Garcia shook his head. "There certainly were only these two when we… caught them."

"Good," nodded Monastario, calmed down. However, after a moment his doubts returned. Something was still troubling him, even if he wasn't entirely sure what. Was it the way Garcia stuttered and ran his eyes again?...

"Did they put up much resistance?" he asked, this time watching the sergeant carefully.

"No, _mi Capit_ _á_ _n_ , not at all."

"Not at all?" Monastario furrowed his eyebrows. "So you managed to surprise them? How's that possible?"

The sergeant made some undefined gesture. He seemed to be very concentrated on the harness of his horse, fidgeting the reins around his big hands. "It is not that we managed to surprise them, _Commandante_. It is just that they put up no resistance."

"Why?..." asked slowly Monastario.

"I guess that's because… that's because of the circumstances…" finished quietly the sergeant.

Monastario pulled the reins, forcing his horse to stop. The detachment followed his example, even if lancers tried to stay at a safe distance from the _commandante_ and Garcia.

"And what were the circumstances, Sergeant?" drawled Monastario. He already started to suspect the solution of this riddle.

Garcia looked around, searching for help by his companions, but the other lancers only escaped their sight. He swallowed loudly and tried to face the _capitán_.

"These bandits were… sitting," he said slowly. "Under the tree."

"Sitting?" the _commandante_ leaned over the sergeant menacingly. "And?..."

"And… they were bound…" whispered Garcia. He tried to move back, but set still under Monastario's glance.

"And?..." continued the _commandante_ , his voice very close to a growl.

"And?..." the scared sergeant looked at him incomprehensively.

"Well, was there something else, Sergeant?" asked Monastario in a tone that made Garcia curl on the saddle. "Something like, for example, a big, filthy 'Z' drawn or carved somewhere around?"

The soldiers around them froze, holding their breaths. Even their horses ceased to snort and move. The only sound in the scared silence was the chirping of the last autumn cicadas.

"The 'Z' was carved on the tree," whispered the sergeant.

Even cicadas quietened and for a few seconds, the whole world stilled in perfect silence. Monastario, helpless with anger, looked at the sky as if pleading for some thunder that would punish these idiots he had to work with. As the sky remained clear, he had to take the role of the thunder himself.

" _Baboso_! But how could you be so stupid!" he yelled. "Zorro left these bandits for you to find and you did what? Simply took them?"

"Was I supposed to free them?..."

"You were supposed to tell me about it, you idiot! Do you think that the outlaw left us a gift? He is most certainly plotting something to make me look ridiculous again!"

"I thought he wanted to help," muttered Garcia.

"Do you remember what happened the last time when you thought Zorro wanted to help you?" hissed Monastario. "We ended on a wild goose chase, whereas the outlaw was calmly destroying my carriage!"

"But that was different… That happened when we tried to outsmart Zorro, and this wasn't a good idea and…" the further words died in Garcia's throat when he saw Monastario's expression. He swallowed loudly and asked, trying to change the subject: "Shall we return, _Commandante_?"

Monastario hesitated. Even if he was mistrustful about Zorro's intentions, he was also unwilling to give up the fresh trail of the bandits. What if the masked outlaw really wanted nothing more than the dangerous band to be caught? After all, the Fox was another kind of criminal than these thugs who kidnapped a woman for ransom. A vigilante, not a brigand. And yet…

"I am not going to play myself into the hands of this masked devil again," the _commandante_ muttered angrily and raised the hand, ready to order lancers to go back to the _cuartel_.

But the bandits… and the viceroy… the viceroy would certainly overview the presidios and higher rank officers… No matter the gratitude of Don Miguel, the failure to capture the band of dangerous criminals wouldn't help Monastario to make a good impression…

The _commandante_ lowered his hand without giving an order of return.

But if it is another trap of the sneaky Fox?... Ah, if there was the way to outsmart them all; trick the insidious outlaw and still get the bandits!...

And if, since Zorro already got engaged in this matter, if there was a way to use it and set Monastario's trap for him! If the outlaw made such effort to ensure the arrest of this band, he would certainly be interested in the results… Perhaps he would appear himself, to check whether the soldiers were successful?…

Monastario considered possible scenarios and their consequences, and the soldiers around him waited in silence, holding their breaths.

"Shall we return?" repeated finally Garcia, who never was good at waiting.

Monastario, awakened from his scheming, looked at the sergeant at first a bit unconsciously, then with a smile that made Garcia regret he didn't bite his tongue before asking.

"You will proceed as planned, Sergeant," he said. "You will ride to the caves and capture the band."

"Me?..."

"Yes," nodded Monastario. "I will be in the meantime checking the surroundings in search for Zorro."

 _If Zorro prepared some trap to ridicule me again, Garcia would have to deal with it_ , thought the _commandante_ with satisfaction. _If not – the soldiers would capture the bandits. Anyway, I am not risking anything, and I can gain a lot._

In fact, Monastario hoped to gain even more. He indeed was going to search for Zorro. If the masked outlaw comes around, the _commandante_ would be waiting for him. Ah, to finally catch the elusive Fox! What a proof of his efficiency that would be!...

"Who knows, Sergeant, perhaps till the sunset we would have both this band and Zorro, secured in the cells!" exclaimed the _commandante_ , his soul swelling with delight at such perspective.

The sergeant, however, shifted in the saddle with abashed expression. "But, _Capitán_ , wouldn't it be impolite to catch Zorro exactly on such occasion when he is helping us?"

" _Baboso_ ," sighed the _commandante_. "Why do I have to put up with you? Leave Zorro to me, your task is to capture the bandits."

"Of course, _mi_ _Capitán_ ," nodded the sergeant, evidently relieved. "Gracias. That's very kind of you. I do prefer to take care of the bandits."

Monastario shook his head, not sure whether he was more irritated or amused. "Just do not fail me this time, Sergeant," he warned. "Or your skin will replace the panther fur as my carpet."

* * *

The lancers proceeded along the trail and Monastario chose side paths, trying to stay in the cover of bushes. He carefully checked the surroundings and made sure that no rider in black attire was nearing to the old Indian caves.

Then he stayed in a distance, observing his lancers take positions around the mountain path leading to the entrance of the cavern. Of course, Garcia made the noise like a herd of elephants and the bandits noticed the lancers early enough to escape deeper into the cave. However, it didn't matter, as there was no other exit. Monastario was more worried about potential ruse of Zorro. Tensed and nervous, he kept looking around in search for a black silhouette.

To his surprise, the outlaw didn't appear and everything seemed to go as planned. There was no fight this time. After the moment of bickering between soldiers and bandits and few crazy threats thrown by Garcia that made Monastario roll his eyes – after all, in the whole _cuartel_ there were not enough explosives to blow up the whole mountain – the bandits decided to surrender.

Only then, seeing these long chased thugs going out weaponless, with raised hands, Monastario started to believe that Zorro had no hidden agenda and allowed himself for a triumphal smile. So he got the whole band after all! And who would dare to question his efficiency now? Ah, but what a pity that Zorro didn't come! What a splendid, double victory it would be if the _commandante_ would manage to capture also the masked outlaw! It was hard to give up this idea.

But perhaps he would still come? Perhaps he intended to check the caves later, to make sure that bandits were arrested? Certainly, he was curious, whether the soldiers made use of his gift!

 _I will wait a few hours,_ decided Monastario.

Still in hiding, he observed how Garcia prepared the prisoners to escort. The sergeant for while swirled around, obviously waiting for the _commandante_. However, when Monastario didn't appear, he ordered the return to the pueblo.

 _Very well,_ thought Monastario, seeing how the sergeant secured the prisoners and lined up the soldiers. _Even this dumb idiot can do the thing right sometimes._

Once they were gone, the _commandante_ slowly rode down to the caves. He hid his horse so that the animal wouldn't be visible from the paths and himself moved into the shadow of the boulders. With two pistols prepared to shoot and the rapier ready to be used, Monastario waited, praying that Zorro would come. He was ready to meet him.

* * *

When the sun hid behind the horizon and dusk fell over the mountains, Monastario had still some hope. Wasn't the Fox said to ride at night, under the moonlight? There were a few damn songs about it. So, the _commandante_ walked around the caves, piercing the deepening shadows around him with the suspicious glance, his imagination playing tricks with him and making him see the masked outlaw behind each boulder and hear the rustle of his cape in each gust of the wind.

Yet, Zorro didn't appear.

When the night fell and the moon raised high, he had to give up. Perhaps Zorro was too cautious, perhaps not that interested in the fate of the bandits. Perhaps he had some other ways to learn it. Anyway, it was obvious that he wouldn't come.

Bored, hungry and tired of waiting, Monastario mounted his horse and started to ride back.

Only when he got out of the mountains and was riding along the road leading to Los Angeles, did he recall his decision to avoid lonely excursions. He even stopped his horse and looked suspiciously around… but the road was empty and the night around him – calm and friendly. The full moon on the cloudless sky gave enough light to see all the details of the surroundings – and there was no one or nothing disturbing in view.

The _commandante_ sighed with relief and spurred his horse to ride further.

And then he heard it – a distant, but clear call.

"Help! Somebody, help me!"

Monastario raised his eyes to the sky with silent reproach. He was close to ignoring the plea, but the voice calling doubtlessly belonged to the aged man. It was very unlikely that at this hour someone else would hear this call and come with assistance.

"Help me!" called the old man again. The outcry was accompanied by the desperate barking of the dog.

Curious, the _commandante_ rushed his horse in the direction of the call.

Very soon he saw the man in need and what he suspected to be the reason for his trouble. A small carriage, strangely lopsided, stood just at the bank of the river, just at the descent of the bridge. A few planks of the bridge were broken. Somewhere near, the dog was barking and whining desperately.

The old man, staying at the side of the carriage, waved hectically to Monastario, as soon as he saw him.

"Over here! Over here!" he called even when the _commandante_ was still in a big distance. "Oh, Heavens sent you to me, my son! I feared that no one would hear me!"

Monastario noticed that the man was wearing a habit and slightly grimaced. Since his… dispute with Padre Felipe, the _commandante_ was getting a bit ticklish at the view of priests or monks. Especially these Franciscans, they declared to follow the road of poverty and mercy, but somehow this road very often crossed with Monastario's path, sometimes blocking it effectively.

This man was a monk, a Franciscan, and he certainly was travelling toward the Mission San Gabriél, to be the guest of Padre Felipe.

Nevertheless, Monastario rode closer and leant over the carriage.

"Your carriage is damaged, Padre? I am not certain whether I will manage to fix it on my own," he said trying to get through the barking of the dog.

"Never mind the carriage," replied the monk impatiently. "Save my dog!"

"A dog?" asked Monastario surprised, nearing to the river. The barking dog was indeed in the water, clinging desperately to some plank that got stuck between the pillars of the bridge. The animal clawed to the wet wood with all his strengths, but his paws were awkwardly slipping on it.

"He fell into the water when my carriage tilted on the bridge. Please, do something, he won't hold on much longer!"

"But the dogs can swim," said the _commandante_ furrowing his eyebrows.

"This one cannot," replied the old man, shaking his head. "He has rheumatism, and one of his paws is too stiff, and…"

"Yes, yes, I get the picture of this misery," interrupted him Monastario. "I could reach to him some branch," he mused looking around in search for suitable tree or bush.

"Oh, no, he won't manage to catch it. He's a very old dog, you know," the monk smiled sadly. "Please, my boy, you must get him out of this water. It is not that deep... I think. You could carry him out."

Monastario for a moment just froze with indignation. These Franciscans, they managed to join the traditional impudence of the Church with the weirdest, ill-located sentiments! How easy it was for them to say: "You cannot arrest Torres, because he claimed asylum in my church," or "Get into this river in the middle of the night to save my old dog"…

There was no way that the _commandante_ would paddle in muddy water for some mongrel. He would reach out a branch, either the animal would use it to get on the bank, or… or it was not Monastario's problem what would happen to him.

"Listen, Padre," he started angrily, dismounting to break the big branch from the nearest bush. "To start with, I am not a boy. I have my years and my rank. Then, I can help you to reach the safe shelter," he neared to the riverbank and started to descend as low as he could. "I can also try to repair your carriage. But certainly I am not going to…"

His feet slipped at the wet grass and he landed to his waist up in the cold water.

Monastario cursed aloud, not caring for the presence of the monk, and tried to grasp some tuft of weed growing at the bank to get out, but he only slipped once again on the muddy bottom of the river. The searing pain pierced his ankle and for a second he lost his footing, desperately waving his hands and splashing water all around. Only when the current brought him to the pillars of the bridge, he managed to grab one of them and regain his balance.

Coughing and spitting with water, the _commandante_ noticed this damn mongrel just under his elbow. As he was already so close, he grabbed the animal and shoveled it onto the bridge. The dog whinnied and immediately ran to his master, who waited for him with outstretched hands.

"Gogo, my poor Gogo," muttered the old man, wrapping the animal in his own coat. "It is over, you are safe now."

 _Gogo. Gogo!_ snorted Monastario, shaking with cold and irritation. _I just destroyed another uniform and very good shoes, but that's nothing, as I managed to save some verminous Gogo!_

Grabbing the pillars of the bridge for support the _commandante_ waded through the water and reached the riverbank. He didn't intend to arrest the old monk because he wouldn't suffer Gogo's presence in the _cuartel_ – but he was going to be very, very offensive.

Yet the monk was waiting for him, cradling the dog to his breast. He reached his hand to help Monastario out of the water and said with gratitude:

"Thank you, my good boy. San Francisco de Assisi will reward you for your kind heart for this little creature," and he blessed Monastario, making the cross in front of him.

 _It's only missing that he would pat my head,_ the _commandante_ bridled furiously but remained silent. He had still enough sense of decorum left so that he couldn't yell at the man blessing him. He even crossed himself, though with a very sour face.

The throbbing in his ankle became more persistent once he started to walk on the firm ground. Besides, the water was dripping from his uniform and the cold night's air chilled him to the bone. The old monk retrieved from his carriage a blanket and handed it to the _commandante_.

"If you give me a second, I will find something dry for you, my boy. Of course, the only kind of garment I have is a habit, but…"

"No, thank you. The blanket would be enough," replied decisively Monastario. Then, having wrapped the fabric around his shoulders, he hobbled to the carriage and looked at it more precisely. Everything seemed to be in order. It was lopsided only because one of the wheels was stopped off the road.

"It is not broken?" he asked.

"I don't think so," replied the monk. "When I was pulling down the bridge, a few planks got broke. We lost balance for a while – that's when Gogo fell out – but I managed to get onto the road safely. Only Gogo…" the old man looked at the animal tenderly and added: "I wanted to go for him myself, but I feared I won't be able to climb back on the bank. But if you didn't appear, I would have gone for him."

"It is good that you didn't," Monastario shrugged his shoulders. "This river is not very deep, but the current is quite strong."

"So you see, my boy," the padre smiled gently, "perhaps I owe you my life."

"I am not a boy," muttered the _commandante_ , but so quietly that the monk wouldn't hear him. After all, it had been such a long time since someone called him a boy that it was even funny.

So, he took the reins and forced the mule harnessed to the carriage to pull it onto the road again.

"I assume, Padre, you are heading for a mission? It is very close from here."

"Yes. Why don't you ride with me, my boy? You should change into something dry and warm yourself by the fire."

The _commandante_ was rather reluctant about visiting Padre Felipe, especially in such miserably muddied uniform. However, he still had in mind this tedious cold he came down with last time when he was riding in the wet clothes. What's more, his ankle was throbbing more and more painfully. All in all, swallowing his pride, he decided to ride to the mission with the old monk.

 _Besides, we wouldn't like Gogo to get into troubles again,_ he thought bitingly, measuring the animal with a malicious glance. As far as he could tell in the moonlight, it was a very ugly dog.

* * *

"Padre Vincente! So good to see you! I am so glad you arrived safely!" Padre Felipe hugged the monk with a cordial smile. "And little Gogo is with you, as always!"

Monastario didn't care to ask for the name of the old man earlier and now he flinched with surprise. Padre Vincente was the famous sermonizer that His Excellency Juan de Agüero, bishop of Durango, recommended to the special care of all officials in California. It must have been the same man.

 _And who could say I am not a dutiful servant of the Church,_ Monastario smirked ironically, _I not only took care of the padre himself but also about his flea-infested dog. Still, I do not think that His Excellency would provide me with new shoes in reward for my zeal._

"Ah, _Commandante_ Monastario," Padre Felipe looked at the _capitán_ and the warm expression disappeared from his face. "Why are you here? Is it not enough that you disturb the servants of God during their daily ministries? Are you now going to persecute us also during travels?"

"Have you ever thought, Padre, that perhaps you were born at the wrong time?" replied Monastario ironically. "If you had lived in the times of Nero, you would have reached the crown of martyr very quickly. It would suit you."

"But Felipe, what are you talking about?" chimed in Padre Vincente, looking at them both with surprise. "San Francisco himself sent me this good boy. Had it not been for him, Gogo would have drowned in the river!"

"What?..." asked Padre Felipe quite rudely, so surprised that he lost his usual elocution.

"Yes, he jumped to the river to save him! Right, Gogo? The nice boy helped you to get safely back to me, didn't he?" Padre Vincente nodded with a smile, caressing his ugly dog.

Padre Felipe cast a very cautious glance at Monastario, as if he expected something terrible to happen when he was called "a nice boy", but the _commandante_ only rolled his eyes.

"Could you give me some dry clothes, Padre?" he asked matter-of-factly. "Just do not ask me to run around in a habit."

"I think…" Padre Felipe started very slowly, then coughed and started again: "I think that there are some of your soldiers' uniforms left since the times when you overtook… since your last visit here," he finished quite gently.

Somehow, Monastario was even grateful that Padre Felipe didn't go into details of the _commandante's_ last visit at the mission. Not that he was ashamed of it, on the contrary, if he regretted something, it was only that he failed. Still, Padre Vincente was such a funny old man. Why should he be bothered with the stories of all these quarrels and floggings…

It had been ages since someone called Monastario a good boy… and most probably no one would ever do it again.

"Please, go inside," Padre Felipe invited them to enter the mission. "I will bring you the clothes, _Commandante_ , and you, Vincente, should eat something. And Gogo too."

The old monk smiled and entered the building, carrying his dog. Monastario dismounted and followed him, cursing the pain in his ankle. He didn't want to limp like a cripple in the presence of this arrogant priest.

However, when Padre Felipe brought him the clothes, he was not arrogant, only said politely:

"I am sorry I snapped at you, _Commandante_. I was surprised. Padre Vincente is my old friend. He is a wise scholar, but in life – he is trustful like a child. I wouldn't like him to be harmed." The expression on the padre's face softened and he said with a smile: "And he really loves this ugly dog of his. Thank you, _Commandante_. I wouldn't suspect… You surprised me. Well, I will leave you now so that you could change into dry clothes. And it is so late, that perhaps you would like to stay at the mission for a night? This time you are invited."

"I will have to," replied Monastario gloomily. "I must have sprained my ankle."

* * *

On the next morning, the sun was already high in the sky and Monastario was almost ready to ride to Los Angeles, when Sergeant Garcia, breathless and worried, burst into the dormitory.

"Here you are, _Commandante_!" he called with relief. "We have searched for you all night!"

"You haven't," muttered Monastario through clenched teeth. When Garcia arrived, he was just struggling with the shoe, trying to pull it onto his swollen ankle. The leg still throbbed, making him very irritated. "If you had searched for me, you would have arrived here at the mission in the first place. And you didn't."

The _commandante_ was also tired, as he didn't sleep well this night. Gogo's barking woke him up at the first beams of the dawn and didn't let him fall asleep again. If his leg hadn't pain that much, he would gladly go and throw this animal to the river again.

"When exactly did you notice that I didn't return?" he asked bitingly. "On the morning?"

He was asking rhetorically but Garcia's guilty expression told him that this was exactly the case.

"I am terribly sorry, _Commandante_ ," muttered the sergeant, lowering his head. "It is just that Don Diego arrived at the pueblo yesterday, and he was so interested how we captured these bandits, so… so we spent the evening in the tavern and I told him about it… and…"

"And you got drunk and forgot about me," finished angrily Monastario.

"No, _mi Capit_ _á_ _n_ , I swear that I…" started the sergeant with ardor, but then silenced and sighed with regret: "I am sorry."

"Let's go," Monastario finally managed to squeeze the shoe and slowly stood up. "I won't bear the barking of this dog any second longer."

"What happened to your leg, _Commandante_?"

"Nothing serious," replied shortly Monastario. He definitely wasn't going to tell anyone that he sprained the leg while getting out of the water some old and ugly barker.

"Oh, that's good, as you are invited for the fiesta this evening," replied the sergeant and explained, seeing the questioning sight of the _commandante_ : "Don Miguel was so overjoyed that the bandits who kidnapped his niece won't escape justice that he decided to give a party. He would be very disappointed if you didn't come."

"I think I will come," replied slowly Monastario. Capturing these bandits was something he was indeed proud of. In this case, he wouldn't mind receiving some accolades.

"We did a good job yesterday, didn't we, _Commandante_?" Garcia straightened proudly and continued with a dreamy smile. "Me and Zorro, who would say that?... And we did work together. Of course, I did most of the job, but…"

"I guess you didn't write the report yesterday, Sergeant?" Monastario interrupted him angrily. "So you will do it today. There is a lot of paperwork around this band before we send them to Monterey. Since you are such an efficient soldier, I will leave it to you. But if I find the name of this damned outlaw in any of your notes…"

"I know, Mojave desert," sighed the sergeant with resignation, but then hesitated: "Or is it now that thing with my skin and your carpet?..."

The _commandante_ didn't bother to reply. As decisively as his leg allowed, he marched out from the building and ordered some native to fetch his horse. Unfortunately, Padre Vincente and Gogo were already walking in front of the mission. In the sunlight, the dog was even uglier than at night.

"Ah, I am so glad to see that you feel better, my boy," said the padre with a smile. "Gogo wanted to thank you for the rescue once again."

Monastario sent the animal hostile glance. The dog in reply bared his teeth and growled.

"You helped that little doggie, _Commandante_?" beamed the sergeant, reaching to Gogo to pat him. "How nice of you. Here, doggie, you are a cute little boy, aren't you?" Garcia scratched the dog's neck, while the animal, enjoying the caress, puffed and wagged widely his short tail.

"Yes, he is," replied the old monk smiling even wider. He turned to Padre Felipe, who just exited the church and approached them and commented: "It is the first time I meet the soldiers who have so much respect and fondness for life, even when in the form of this little creature. You are lucky to have such garrison around, Felipe."

Padre Felipe made some stifled sound but didn't reply. He only looked as if he just swallowed something tasting very strangely.

"Thank you for the lodging, Padre," said Monastario shortly. He took the reins of his horse from the native and climbed onto the saddle. "Sergeant, it is time for us."

"Ah… _Commandante_ ," Padre Felipe stopped him with the certain hesitation. "One more thing… This flour… You surprised me here too. I understand that you want to make amends but… well, that was unexpected."

Monastario stared at Padre Felipe, blinking with surprise.

"Flour?"

The padre smiled knowingly and nodded.

"I suspect, Padre, that all this incense you inhale must have damaged your brain," said Monastario earnestly, shaking his head.

"And I start to suspect that you are not as the black devil as you like to be painted," said Padre Felipe with a lenient smile. "If only you were more… temperate in your actions."

The _commandante_ raised his eyebrows, but he was reluctant to develop the quarrel in the presence of Padre Vincente. So, he only waved for Garcia and left of the mission. However, the padre's words kept troubling him and after a few minutes of a silent ride he slowed down and asked Garcia:

"Sergeant, do you have any idea what this nonsense with the flour was about?"

"Well, it seems they must have got it…" replied the sergeant with pensiveness. Seeing Monastario's impatient glance, he replied hurriedly: "When you were ill, _Commandante_ , the miller came and wanted to give us some flour… as a gesture of gratitude. He was so happy that his boy returned safe!... But what should we do with the flour?" the sergeant shrugged his shoulders. For a second it seemed he regretted that Monastario didn't save the progeny of the inn-keeper. "So, I told him to make instead an offering for the church or the poor… He must have sent it to the mission. I didn't think he would do it in your name, but that's not a problem, is it?"

Monastario hesitated. However absurd was the idea of him giving offerings for a church… and the concept of making amends with Padre Felipe and his band of Indians was simply offensive… still, a little ceasefire with this loudmouth of a priest on the eve of the viceroy's inspection wasn't that bad…

"Since the miller already did it…" he replied evasively.

For a while they rode in silence until the _commandante_ broke it again: "Just do not tell anyone that I had anything to do with this disgusting dog, Sergeant. I do not want people to laugh me off about it."

* * *

"I would never say that you would jump into the river to save the dog, _Capitán_ ," said Diego de la Vega shaking his head, when they met at the evening on Don Miguel's party. For the first time since the _commandante_ knew him, the young dandy appeared to be confused.

Monastario sighed impatiently. He sincerely regretted coming to this fiesta. Somehow, everyone already heard about his last adventure and instead of relating his victory over the bandits, he had to answer questions about this damn dog.

"I didn't jump," he replied angrily. "I fell, accidentally."

"Ah," de la Vega nodded with something close to relief written on his face. "That makes things more understandable. Still, you earned Padre's Vincente gratitude."

Monastario was about to say what the whole Franciscan order could do with its gratitude, but the angry words died on his mouth when he saw the new figure descending the stairs of the hacienda to join the guests. The _commandante_ had certainly never seen this woman in Los Angeles before. He would have remembered.

Diego de la Vega followed his sight and discreetly cleared his throat, waking Monastario from the sudden stupor.

"I believe, _Commandante_ , that Doña Elvira would like to thank you personally for your assistance," he observed quietly.

"Doña Elvira?..." whispered Monastario, opening his eyes wide with surprise. The one who was kidnapped? But... he dragged out of this stinky hole some dirty ragged creature and this lady was…

"Stunning, isn't she?" smiled Diego de la Vega, as if reading Monastario's mind. "Unfortunately, she is not going to stay in California forever, but… well, there are women worth travelling back to Spain, don't you think?"

"What?..." asked Monastario with distraction. "Excuse me, Señor."

He left de la Vega, barely noticing that the young man was looking behind him with extremely content expression, and neared to Doña Elvira.

"Señora," he said with a bow. "I am glad that we can meet in better circumstances. If you would allow me to say how happy I am to see you recovered..."

Doña Elvira turned to him with a quiet outcry of joy. " _Capitán_! I hoped you would come. I need to thank you. Had it not been for your help…"

"Señora, helping you was my duty as well as honor," replied Monastario and immediately bit his tongue, fearing that he sounded too pompous. He did have a tendency to overdo his speech when abashed… or impressed by someone. However, a quick glance at the satisfied expression on Doña Elvira's face told him that she didn't mind exaggeration in compliments.

For a while, she eyed him curiously.

"You know, _Commandante_ ," she said with a small smile that made some lovely dimples appear on her cheeks, "you look much better without that bruise on your temple."

Monastario thought that it was nothing in comparison to how much better she looked bathed, groomed and dressed up, but he was wise enough to keep this notion for himself.

"I heard about your yesterday's adventure," continued the lady. "You saved a little dog. That was very sweet of you, _Capitán_. I love dogs. In Spain, I had a French poodle, Belle. She was such a spitfire! Do you like poodles?..."

Monastario hated dogs even more than he disliked children. However, he did like pretty women, and Doña Elvira was indeed extremely lovely now, speaking lively and casting at him shy, but encouraging glances.

"Of course I do," he replied with a smile. He intended to be in his most charming self until the end of the evening.


	4. Epilogue: an unfair duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the epilogue, my story entwines with the beginning of the episode "Double Trouble for Zorro". However, only to the certain point.

**Epilogue: an unfair duel**

Monastario was sitting in the tavern, in the middle of the most enjoyable evening. The room was filled with laughter and music. All the tables were occupied and the guests were crowded under the walls, as half of Los Angeles came to admire the new dancer that arrived today to the pueblo.

The _commandante_ with certain amusement noticed that even the miller's son managed to sneak into the sala. However, the boy paid no attention to the dancing girl, only stared at Monastario with utter admiration. Or, perhaps, he was staring at Monastario's rapier, laying on the chair by his side. The _commandante_ shook his head with indulgence and moved his attention to the dancer.

The girl was indeed pretty, her movements full of grace and fire, and eyes – of calculation, when she swirled around the dance floor, trying to spot the guests she would find worth charming.

Monastario, just like the other men in the sala, couldn't remain oblivious to the endearing beauty. Yet in the course of the evening, his attention more and more drew to one of the guests present in the tavern.

Tall and handsome, the man had a bearing of the true daredevil. He moved and laughed with spirited confidence… The whole tavern seemed to be too small for such dashing swashbuckler.

He seemed to be a newcomer to Los Angeles. Monastario certainly had never seen his face before, but… The _commandante's_ eyes ran more and more often to the stranger. There was something… unsettlingly familiar in this young man… The height, the build… the bold eyes and thin moustache… and above all, this swagger and audacity in his behavior…

Finally, Monastario forgot the dancer and concentrated fully on the stranger.

 _Could it be him?..._ he whispered to himself. _Could the Fox really come to the tavern, to admire the dancer so openly?..._

That would be reckless indeed. However, didn't people do the most reckless things for love? And the stranger was definitely smitten by the dancing girl.

 _It could be him…_ the _commandante_ narrowed his eyes, like the cat in front of the mouse hole. He almost raised the hand to summon the lancers. Then, he hesitated.

There was something… more in the Fox. Something that this man was missing.

More finesse.

So, he only waved for Garcia.

"Sergeant," he asked quietly, "do you know who this noisy cockerel is?" he asked pointing at the stranger, who just saluted with loud cheers the dancer after she finished her performance.

"Oh, yes," nodded the big sergeant. "He earlier presented himself as Carlos Martinéz."

"Ah, so that's Martinéz!" called Monastario with disappointment. He remembered that Carlos Martinéz was wanted by the officers from other presidios. He couldn't have been the Fox if he brawled in other districts while Zorro was occupied in Los Angeles.

Suddenly, the _commandante_ saw that Martinéz was starting the quarrel with one of the local guests. Whatever it was about, it was escalating quickly. After a few angry words, Martinéz threw the content of his glass into the face of the man he accosted and drew out his weapon. The other man, though abashed, reddened with anger and followed his example.

The dancer screamed and the frightened guests moved back as two men started the fight.

 _Yes, brave and dashing, and definitely skilled with a blade._ Monastario watched with renewed interest, how Martinéz ferociously attacked his opponent, pushing him into the defensive. The villager had no chances against such a good swordsman.

 _An excellent swordsman,_ corrected himself Monastario, narrowing his eyes again. _Who knows, perhaps he is equal to the Fox himself…_ The beginnings of some nasty plans started to form in the _commandante's_ head…

" _Capitán_ , we must stop it!" called Garcia anxiously. "The stranger is too expert with a blade!"

Yes, he should stop it. Martinéz was a wanted man, and he obviously was going to draw blood again in this barroom duel. And yet…

 _Once I have the man, so alike Zorro, with Zorro's physique, bearing and skills, but without his principles… without any principles… there are so many ways I could use him!_ The plans in the _commandante's_ head started to take more precise shape.

"No, wait," he replied. "This might prove interesting."

"But he will kill the poor man in a second!" protested Garcia.

 _If he kills him, he will be at my mercy,_ thought coldly the _commandante_. _He will have to do what I tell him._ He stood up and – not forgetting his own blade – neared to the dueling men to see the fight better.

Martinéz attacked with increased ferocity. His opponent, paled and sweated, was on the verge of panic. He wasn't going to last much longer.

Hearing a few scared gasps of the onlookers, Monastario looked around. The other guests froze in awe when the duel started. Once they saw that the imbalance of skills turned the duel into murder, some of them cast expectant glances at the soldiers.

Like Carlito. Craning his neck, the boy let neither Monastario nor the _capitan's_ rapier from his sight, evidently waiting for the _commandante_ to make use of it.

Monastario rubbed his temple in hesitation. Some part of him wanted to let Martinéz finish this duel. Once he murdered this stupid villager, he would be utterly dependent on Monastario. The _commandante_ would then put into life all these plans forming in his mind…

But could he let the people to be murdered in his presence?... Recently, he grew to like the feeling of being the one who saved the day. And now, now it was another occasion…

Before the _commandante_ made up his mind, Martinéz thrust his blade in the final blow. Forgetting his quandary, Monastario jumped forward drawing out his rapier and, in the last second, parried the mortal stroke.

"Hurray!" yelled Carlito.

The scared villager almost sobbed with relief. Monastario pushed the man aside and took his place, planning to engage Martinéz himself. However, the trouble-maker got confused by the sudden change of opponents. He saw the lancers gathering around and quickly understood that fighting their _capitán_ would only worsen his situation.

"I have no quarrel with soldiers!" he called, stepping back.

"Wise decision," said Monastario. He knocked the rapier out of Martinéz's hand and ordered to the sergeant: "Take him to the cell!"

"What for? That man offended me, I was only defending my honor!" protested angrily Martinéz, trying to free himself from the soldiers' hands. Monastario for a second felt some recognition, seeing the proud spark in his eyes. Then, however, he shrugged his shoulders, pushing this thought aside. He was the _commandante_ of the pueblo and this man was no more than a criminal. There was no kinship between them.

"There are search warrants after you, Martinéz," he stated obliviously. "Tomorrow we will send you to Santa Barbara."

Martinéz started to protest, but the soldiers led him out of the tavern. Monastario, in the meantime, accepted thanks from the shaken villager and his friends and with liking listened to the buzz of compliments around him. Yes, he enjoyed it. And tomorrow he would indeed send Martinéz to the _Commandante_ Zambrano, who issued the warrants after him. It was time that also the other officers started to respect him.

He couldn't know that – had he taken another decision a few minutes ago – everything could have ended differently. If he let Martinéz finish his opponent and then made a deal with this swashbuckler, so similar to Zorro – perhaps he would have started one of his most devilish intrigues. Perhaps that's how he would finally corner the Fox, not leaving the masked outlaw another choice, but to take the risk and act openly. Perhaps the _commandante_ would finally get enough clues to find out the identity of his mysterious enemy.

And perhaps that's how Monastario would launch the chain of events leading him, the most surprisingly, in the hour of his triumph – to his greatest downfall.

If he only made another choice a few minutes ago…

But he didn't.

And now, everything could happen.


End file.
